Friday, August 12, 2011

Public restrooms can be a terrifying experience. I'm sure everyone has a story of when they thought the end was near and a toilet flush was their horror movie soundtrack.

Now I can handle public restrooms and the horror that exists within them pretty well. I credit this to my binge drinking career. Once you've found yourself face down on the most disgusting bathroom floor ever wondering if that's your vomit or someone else's but not giving two shits either way...you've hit rock bottom and feel a sense of camaraderie with Ms. Spears as she trolls gas station bathrooms barefoot.

Despite the fact that I don't have a sense of doom every time I walk into a public bathroom doesn't mean I enjoy the experience. Clearly I'd rather have some alone time when I'm releasing some type of substance from my body. And I'd rather not know that you ate some bad Indian food for lunch and your IBS has really fucked you over this time. But I honestly support the ladies that just let it all go and handle their business. I can deal with the demon noises coming from the next stall for the 2 minutes it takes me to pee, wash my hands in the hottest water possible and sprint the fuck out of there without even checking to make sure my dress isn't exposing my left ass cheek. But the ONE thing that cuts off my pee flow faster than a cop driving by when I'm popping a squat in an alley is what I like to call the "poo stand-off".

This happens at least once a week at work. They come up with a new way to shatter our hopes and dreams and drive us to suicide monthly. This month it's cutting off our bathroom supply. Now if I want to empty my bladder of the nine cups of coffee and two Red Bulls that I've consumed to keep myself from blacking out at my desk I have to walk to another floor, walk by every department left in the building and deal with the anxiety that the "poo stand off" gives me.

Let me explain this phenomenon. The poo-stand off is when two people need to drop a good old deuce but are waiting for the bathroom to empty so they can poo in peace. Now usually this strategy will work. The people around you will notice the dead silence coming from your stall and they'll hurry so you can have your "you" time. But then there are those times when you and another person are trying the same strategy. Not only is this awkward for the two pooers, but it's ten times more awkward when you're me, stuck in the middle of this war that no one can win.

Now I usually don't have a problem peeing. But when I walk into the middle of a poo stand off it's like my bladder gains a mind of it's own and the only thought is "Fuuuuuck this bitch we're holding out until this shit gets REALLY awkward". So there I am, sitting in dead silence, waiting for even a sniffle from one my comrades. Nothing. I will myself to pee. I imagine rain, waterfalls, sprinklers, hurricanes but still nothing. Somehow I've gotten myself involved in this and I don't even have a food baby to abort! Relief only comes when some unlucky fourth person walks in and the noise from their entrance gives my bitch of a bladder the courage to unclench. At this point the pleasure of peeing is gone completely. Now I'm just pissed off. I've lost 4 minutes of my life and I want them back.

This situation gets even worse when the people try to pretend they're not there. It takes every bit of strength that's left after internally screaming at my bladder to not yell "I saw you just put your feet up bitch!" That childhood game where if you close your eyes other people can't see you is not real. Oh and while I'm dashing hopes and dreams let me point out that there's no Santa Claus either. Your mother's waiting for your call.

Honestly, unless you take off your shoes before you go into the bathroom we know who you are. And we also see you drink a pot of coffee, eat a burrito for lunch and then practically sprint to the bathroom with sweat forming on your upper lip. Just do us all a favor black pumps and use the bathroom at Wendy's so I can stop drinking cranberry juice to prevent a future bladder infection.

Monday, August 8, 2011

We've all seen the match.com commercials where the two super attractive people do a little interview before meeting and look all shy and nervous. Then they walk up and hug and you can practically see the sparks fly. Cut to them cracking jokes while sipping wine and talking about how they can't wait until their second date. First of all, on the level of attractiveness of these two people, I call motherfuckin bullshit. Two extremely attractive people do not need online dating. If you can bounce a quarter off your ass and your penis hasn't stayed in your pants longer than a day in decades, you don't need to troll for dick on the internet.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not mocking online dating or judging people who go there. I'll prove why in a minute. I'm merely saying that people who have douchey guys or slutty chicks with fake tits lining up to buy them drinks at a bar don't cry themselves to sleep at night cuddling an empty bottle of wine and trying to get their shitty cable to connect to Skinemax so they can pretend they got some action.

Because I HAVE woken up next to an empty bottle of champagne (or two) and an empty bag of Doritos (or two), I decided what the hell, what do I have to lose? My dignity? Left somewhere at my brother's Halloween party last year. Or maybe at my family Christmas party when I took off my pants and let my family members take pictures and then tried to bone a 20 year old. That's neither here nor there. The long and short of it is that I have no pride so that wasn't an obstacle.

Enter this fun little rape den called okcupid.com. First of all I knew I wasn't classy enough for match.com and I couldn't quote you shit from the Bible so eharmony was out of the question. I don't actually want to get gang banged so plentyofdicksinthesea or whatever the hell that site is was out of the question. Okcupid seemed like a good balance between trolling for dick and actually trying to meet a person who wasn't featured on To Catch A Predator. Thus, one Friday night after two bottles of wine and a muscle relaxer or two, plus I'll be honest shedding a few tears during "Just Friends", I signed up and started the journey.

I decided that instead of trying to be cute and coy like all the other lonely bitches, I would go the "being true to myself" route and letting the bitterness and sarcasm out. I figured this would weed out the dudes just looking to put it in a warm crevice. No whorebag dude wants to penetrate the girl who might make a snide comment about their unusually large left testicle. At least that was my theory. So I create what I thought was a pretty awesome profile and taking a deep breath and another chug of wine hit submit.

I kid you not, within 30 seconds I got my first message. I was intrigued, kind of excited. Open it up. Here's the gist of it:

"Hi. My girlfriend and I think you are smokin hot. She's 32 and was in playboy twice. We want to meet you somewhere and discuss the three of us hanging out. Let me know if you're interested. She's hot. You're hot. Hope to hear from you."

Wow. I guess that took a nasty shit on my theory of weeding out the penetrators. I sent a message back politely declining the offer. I'm pretty sure I alluded to Hef's jizz being equivalent to dust but that last chug of wine pretty much did me in and I can't quite remember what my reply said. Pretty sure it was awesome though. Of course.

For the next three days my phone constantly blew up with emails with subject lines like "Rowdytexan is checking you out right now!". OMG! Rowdytexan is checking me out! Holy shit! Dreams DO come true. I decided to give it a week. Then I met my first stalker. Homeboy emailed me three times within 10 minutes. The last one, quoted word for word. I promise. Get your barf bag ready:

"I love your smile. It lights up my day. And your eyes compliment your hair. And you look so happy. I would love to meet you. I feel like we're soul mates. What are you doing right now? Can we meet? Tomorrow? Message me back. Please. I'll be on my work computer until I hear back from you. I'm staying at work. Hope to hear from you."

Even though I knew, without a doubt, that this guy could not in any way watch me through my webcam, I checked to be sure it was turned off four times. I still didn't even trust it so I put tape over it. Then I locked all my doors and windows even though I knew he couldn't get me and it was 150 mother fucking degrees in my apartment. This was the end of my online dating experience. Where the fuck was that guy from Dateline with the bad hair when I needed him? I'm pretty sure this guy wasn't just looking for lemonade and home baked cookies.

The ego boosts were cool. It was nice to have people tell you you're hot. Even if that person is 54 years old and wacking off to my picture and trying to watch me through my webcam. Which is turned off. God dammit I need to check again. Ok, we're good.

The lesson I learned is that I would prefer to troll at bars. No one on okcupid ever bought me a drink and tried to grab my ass in public. Call me old fashioned but I still believe in a little bit of romance.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

I'm not actually pregnant. It's yet to be determined if I'm bipolar and/or depressed but for now, to prevent myself any unnecessary anguish and soul searching, let's just say I'm not those either. But I did go to the doctor's once with stomach pain and within 8 seconds was diagnosed as all three. At that point just pregnancy would have been a dream. I think that's what he was going for. Bring on the terrible news and when you find out it's just acid reflux and not terminal cancer you'll be stoked as shit!

I've had an aversion to the whole blogging thing since it started. Basically it boils down to why should I be so conceited and assume I'm such a unique thinker that people would give a rat's ass what I have to say? But then I realized...I'm pretty awesome so why shouldn't everyone want to read my witty posts and rants? So what I'm trying to say is this is for you friends, stalkers, potential one-night stands and hoarders with your plethora of cats surrounding you. And in the words of one of Bret Michael's whores...."don't threaten me with a good time."

I'll let this first post simmer a bit and see how it feels. By tomorrow morning I might come to my senses and realize I'm just like every other asshole in this world and I really don't have an original thought in my head. Then I'll have to run to the computer and delete this thing like I did with my online dating profile. More on that to come...